


Reconstruction

by Ginia



Series: Barriers [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Spoilers for ch 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-09 13:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11105163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginia/pseuds/Ginia
Summary: In the wake of the events of Altissia, Ignis and Gladio struggle to come to terms with their new reality, a reality in which new barriers are built between them.





	1. Ignis

In the aftermath of Altissia Ignis had quickly accepted a great many unpleasant things.

He had accepted the fact that his every waking moment would be fraught with pain and discomfort – although the doctors were quite certain that the white-hot lances of pain streaking behind his eyes would abate in time.  He had accepted the fact that they now lived in a world bereft of the grace of the Lady Lunafreya. He was even, slowly, accepting the fact that his vision was unlikely to improve and he was already formulating strategies regarding how to best traverse his new world of darkness.

One thing that he could not accept, however, was the absence of one Gladiolus Amicitia.

Nearly a week ago now Ignis had clawed his way to consciousness, back to the realm of the living and conscious. The smothering weight of too many blankets and bandages coupled with powerful sedatives had threatened to drown him in their sweet oblivion. It had been his worry for his comrades that had given him the physical and mental strength that he’d needed to cling to a thread of consciousness and pull himself free from that oblivion.

 He remembered the heaviness in his limbs and the infuriating sluggishness of his mind as he had labored to regain his bearings and sense of self. He remembered the sheer terror of being certain that he was awake (because by the Gods had he been in pain), and knowing that he had opened his eyes, yet he hadn’t been able to see anything. His world was a void in which not even shadows could find purchase. He remembered the unfamiliar feeling of bandages wrapped about his head and the weak sliver of hope he had clung to that he was only blind because the wrappings were too thick and secure.

He remembered with perfect clarity reaching out, clumsy and uncertain, fingers seeking a familiar comfort, seeking the man who surely was at his bedside in his time of need and vulnerability.

He remembered finding the unfamiliar feeling of Prompto’s cold, slender hand taking his. Not Gladio’s.

Ignis’s heart had turned to adamantium in that moment. He had been certain that wild behemoths couldn’t have kept Gladio from his sickbed. He had been convinced that his absence had signalled some greater tragedy than Ignis’s own injuries. Either Gladio had been gravely injured himself and was still abed, or Noctis had been and Gladio was fulfilling his duties to their wounded King. Ignis had staunchly refused to consider any more dire scenarios.

Prompto had filled him in as quickly as he could, voice occasionally breaking and faltering. The gunner had been quick to assure Ignis that Noctis was alright, though exhausted, and that the Rite had in the end been successful and the King had obtained the hard-won blessing of the Hydrean. The blonde had sounded like someone was strangling him when he had been forced to recount what little he’d known of the Oracle’s passing.  Prompto explained that the First Secretary had made arrangements for the four of them to regroup and recover in her own townhouse while she was occupied with the needs of her city.

“What of Gladio?” Ignis had been forced to ask when Prompto had eventually stuttered his way into silence without having made mention of the Shield.  His query had been met by a sharp intake of breath and a repetitive tapping sound that made it seem like Prompto was kicking his feet against something, a nervous habit the young man had.

“He’s out.”

Ignis would have arched a brow if the bandages wouldn’t have rendered the gesture futile, nor his injuries made it excessively painful.

“Out? While his King is in his sickbed?” Cold fury filtered through Ignis’s veins. Ignis could forgive Gladio neglecting him – he was nothing, _nothing_ in the grand scheme of things, but Noctis? Their King?

Something in his expression, or what could be seen of it, seemed to shock Prompto into becoming more forthcoming. His voice was a bit too high-pitched when he spoke again, a sure sign with Prompto that he was anxious. “Noct’s okay, Iggy. Gladio checked on him and we’ve already made arrangements to have a rotation of people to sit with him so that he won’t be alone when he wakes up. The doctors think it could be a few more days before he’s awake, the fight with Leviathan really drained him.” A sigh sounded, and Ignis could picture Prompto’s whole thin body slumping forward and deflating with the gesture. “Gladio said something about needin’ to keep his hands busy before he punched someone, so he went off to help with the cleanup. Shoving rubble around and the like, y’know. Tough guy stuff.” Prompto patted Ignis’s hand clumsily. “He just needs a bit of fresh air and exercise. He’ll be back soon.”

Ignis didn’t know how soon after that Gladio did in fact return. His brief conversation with Prompto had sapped him of what little strength he had managed to recover. His memory became hazy and he had only vague remembrances of Prompto making soothing noises, pillows being fluffed around him and the chalky, acidic taste of medication being forced upon him. It was likely for the best, really, as he was at that time unaccustomed to shoving aside the burning agony that churned behind his useless eyes. He allowed himself to be swept into the merciful analgesic of sleep with the hope that Gladio might be at his side when he awoke.

Gladio was not at his side when he awoke, although the Shield had quite obviously returned to their temporary lodgings.  His presence was impossible to miss, even if he didn’t deign to actually enter the room in which Ignis was convalescing. As Ignis strained his ears to gain what little understanding of his environment that he could, he would make out the occasional deep bass rumble that he knew was Gladio’s voice, though too far away and behind too many walls for his words to be legible. His voice was engraved into Ignis’s very soul, there was no mistaking it, and he could pick it out amid a chorus of hundreds all shouting at once. At times he also thought that he could smell Gladio. Smell that intoxicating combination of sweat, steel, and cologne that was unique to his lover. The scent seemed to linger at his bedside when he would emerge from sleep, but when he would turn his head blindly from side to side and whisper “Is anybody there?” he would be met with Prompto’s voice if he were lucky, and bleak, lonely, suffocating silence when he was unlucky.

Ignis was jumpy and skittish in the wake of his injuries. Being without his sight, the sense that he relied upon most heavily, was utterly terrifying. He was a man who had worn spectacles to correct a minor flaw in his eyesight out of fear of what he may miss hidden at the blurry edges of his vision.  Now he would have given almost anything to have even his flawed vision restored. His remaining senses were already becoming hypersensitive in an effort to compensate for his lack of sight and he found himself noticing even the slightest change in his environment, the softest most distant sounds, the faintest aromas wafting through the air. He was still unskilled and unpracticed at properly deconstructing the new sensory information, however, and as a result he simply felt more lost and disconcerted by the strange sounds around him, rather than reassured.

Prompto did his best to be helpful during those early days. Every time that Ignis would twitch or jump in surprised at some sensory information that he couldn’t interpret, Prompto was quick to explain what was going on around them. Occasionally Prompto wouldn’t have noticed whatever it was that had set Ignis off, the sound or scent having been too subtle to register with the gunner’s whose own perceptions of the world still revolved heavily around his sight. All that the blonde could do then was assure Ignis that everything was still okay.

The first time that an unfamiliar noise had terrorized Ignis it had been scant minutes after his second awakening. Once again Prompto had been there, his slender fingers twined with the Advisor’s in what was surely meant to be a comforting grip. The blonde had been in the process of asking Ignis if he felt up to eating anything, maybe a sandwich, when a series of violent bangs and thumps had thundered their way through Ignis’s reality. He had felt the force of whatever it was reverberating through the townhouse until his teeth rattled.

“What in blazes?” he had begun, too unsettled to feel any shame for how weak and frightened he sounded. “Prompto, are we, is Noctis safe here?” He spent a few horrifying seconds imagining that Imperial drop ships had returned to finish what they had started, or that this townhouse had perhaps sustained some unnoticed structural damage during the incident and was now on the verge of collapsing around them.

He heard a heavy swallow, accompanied by the sound of Prompto scuffing his boot into the carpet. “It-it’s okay, Iggy. We’re okay. It’s just Gladio.”

Ignis’s ragged breathing eased incrementally. “Gladio?” He asked, just to be certain. What the bloody hell is he doing?”

“Uhh, well, he’s kind of got a vendetta against this house or something. I don’t know.”

“The … house?”

“Y-yeah.” Prompto laughed nervously. “He seems pretty peeved off at it.”

A muscle in Ignis’s jaw twitched with irritation. His words came out more tersely than he intended, and he hoped that Prompto would forgive him given the circumstances. “Prompto, stop talking in riddles. Loathe as I am to say so, you’re my eyes right now. You need to tell me _what exactly_ is going on.”

The gunner was quiet for a moment and Ignis felt a sickening twisting in his gut that he identified as guilt. He hadn’t meant to snap at Prompto, Prompto who probably wanted to sit vigil at Noct’s side, not Ignis’s. Yet he was there, doing his best to be helpful and supportive in his awkward, uniquely Prompto way.  He bowed his head and listened to the soft, even sounds of the blonde’s breathing. At least it didn’t sound like he’d moved the other man to tears. Thank Shiva for small mercies.

Before Ignis could break the silence with an apology, Prompto piped up with one of his own. “I’m sorry, Ignis.” Another nervous laugh. “I keep thinking that I shouldn’t treat you differently, because you’re Ignis freaking Scientia and you’re always flawless and you would hate it if we treated you differently now that, now that you’re, you know … injured.” Prompto coughed and a rustling told Ignis that the blonde was shifting in his seat. “I’ll try to be more direct. It’s not really one of my strengths, though.”

Ignis chuckled warmly. “It’s fine. You’re fine, Prompto. I apologize. I’m not quite myself at the moment.”

“Yeah, uh, no biggie, dude. Really.” Ignis heard a scratching sound and could imagine the gunner scratching at his hyper-gelled hair nervously. “So uh anyway, that sound? Er well, Gladio’s kind of been moping around the house punching things. The walls mostly.”

Ignis sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “He’s assaulting the home of the First Secretary?” All of Ignis’s diplomatic instincts were cringing.

“Uh huh. Um, he hasn’t broken anything, though! I promise. We’ll keep out of trouble.”

“See that you do.” Ignis sighed as he let his head fall back into his pillows. He would eat a bit of food, take some more medication, and deal with his wayward lover later.

* * *

 

Each time that Ignis fell asleep he did so with the belief that when he awoke Gladio would have come for him. When he would awaken to darkness and loneliness, or darkness and Prompto, he was disappointed, but all the more certain that next time, _next time_ Gladio would come.

On the morning, three days into their stay, when the doctor came by to check on Noctis and then remove Ignis’s bandages, he had been so positive that Gladio would come to him that he would have bet his very life on it, he would have bet all of their lives on it. Yet while he was sure that he had caught Gladio’s familiar scent in the air, the other man still didn’t come to him. It was Prompto’s hand that he held when the doctor unwound the bandages and Ignis had been forced to let go of his last shreds of hope that he had maintained some vision in at least his right eye.

The combined agony of losing his full sight and seemingly losing Gladio had been smothering. Ignis had drawn the sheets over his head and begged through his tears for Prompto to please just leave him be for a time. The gunner had obliged and Ignis was alone with his misery.  He had buried his face in his pillow and sobbed, sobbed as he hadn’t done since he was a child. He wept for the parents that he hadn’t seen since he was a toddler. He wept for the uncle who had been like a father to him and had perished in the invasion. He wept for Regis, for Clarus, for the Argentums and for Lunafreya. He wept for his friends and for their collective grief. When he was finished with all of that he still had tears to spare for himself, for the grief of all that he had lost and the frustration he felt at not being able to do a blessed thing about it.

The only sound that was loud enough to penetrate Ignis’s awareness over the sound of his own sobs was the renewed pummelling that Gladio seemed to be giving the house. The harder Ignis cried, the harder it seemed that Gladio was punching the walls or kicking the floors or whatever it was he was doing.

He fell asleep with his face pressed into his pillow. He awoke dehydrated from his tears, the muscles in his back aching from the heaving sobs that had wracked his body for however many hours it had been. Gods but it was easy to lose track of time.

* * *

 

Ignis had found it strangely cathartic to vent his sorrows through his tears. In the wake of his breakdown he felt a bit better. He allowed Prompto to help him out of bed, allowed the gunner to guide him around their rooms. Ignis may have been blinded, but he was determined to not be an invalid.

He began the slow process of learning how to truly live in his sightless world. He learned to navigate by touch and by sound. He relied on the cane that some Altissian official had gifted him, and on the tactile information he could glean through his fingertips – he would have to stop wearing his gloves, they muted one of his key senses far too much. All in all it was a slow process, one that would take years to master, but he made progress, and hour by hour he became more himself again.

Becoming himself again meant that his brilliant mind was kicking into gear again, working doubletime to make up for his mental sluggishness while recovering. He of course thought about their mission and their next steps. He thought about his place in the world and in their schemes, which was a horrifying prospect and one that he unashamedly would leave to Noct’s discretion.

He thought about Gladio.

He had told himself that Gladio’s absence was surely due to the fact that he was needed at Noct’s side. He was their King now for all intents and purposes and Gladio’s first duty was his service and protection. Prompto had firmly backed up this theory. Whenever Ignis had asked if Prompto shouldn’t go to Noct, the gunner had explained that Gladio was standing vigil over him.

But he knew that Gladio was not guarding Noctis 24/7. Prompto had already told him that there was a rotation amongst the two of them and Claustra’s staff. Plus the man needed to eat and sleep occasionally. Surely he could have found even a few minutes to slip away and see Ignis.

Ignis’s initial thought was that Gladio was too angry. He was still beating up the house on a regular basis, based on the amount of noise coming from the other end of the townhouse. Ignis understood this. He knew Gladio and knew how deeply embedded in him the need to protect others was. The Shield would have taken Noct’s exhaustion, Luna’s passing, and Ignis’s injuries hard. None of it was Gladio’s fault and surely the Shield knew that, but Ignis knew how irrational the dear behemoth of a man could be when it came to protecting the people that he cared about.

These thoughts kept his anxiety at bay for a day or two, but as Gladio’s absence grew more and more protracted, other more sinister thoughts began to take hold. Surely, surely by now Gladio would have calmed down. Surely he missed Ignis. There must be something else wrong. Horrible thoughts began to fill Ignis’s head, thoughts of Gladio being repulsed by Ignis’s appearance; he didn’t need to see his scarring to know that it was terrible. If it looked half as bad as it felt he would be a sad sight.  Was it possible that Gladio no longer desired him because he was ugly? Or did he not want to deal with the burden of a partner who was blind? Had the events in Altissia broken something fundamental inside of Gladio so that he no longer loved Ignis for some other reason?

Ignis found himself seated in an uncomfortable but probably very stylish armchair, mulling these and other dark thoughts over, turning them around in his mind to admire their hideousness.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” he said to the silent room.  He couldn’t continue on like this. He knew himself, knew how his analytical mind worked. He would continue to come up with one reason after another to explain Gladio’s absence, until he went mad. There was only one thing for it.

He rose, fingers wrapped securely around the head of the cane. It swished back and forth across the carpeted floor in front of him as he counted out the six steps he knew would take him to the sitting room door.  A hand reached out, bare fingers grazing first wallpaper, then after shifting to the side he found the doorframe, following it until he could locate the door knob. Turning it, he poked his head cautiously into the hall, listening. Nothing.

“Prompto?” he called gently.

A door creaked open to his left and a familiar voice was there to reassure him. “Yeah buddy?”

“Would you kindly escort me to Gladio? This has gone on long enough.”

A loud booming noise thundered through the house, coming from somewhere below them, as if to highlight his words and the need behind the request.

“Yeah, of course,” Prompto agreed, then lowered his voice. “Sorry Ignis. I tried to tell him to go talk to you but he wouldn’t listen. Threw a bowl at my head – it was plastic, don’t worry.”

Ignis just sighed in response as he looped his hand around Prompto’s proffered forearm, and together they made their way through the townhouse to wherever Gladio was.

Ignis tried not to feel as if he was walking towards his doom. He wanted desperately to have faith in his love, faith in the bond that they had forged over the years.

It was a slow journey. The corridor was narrow and the staircase steep. It took considerable effort to make it to the first-floor room where Gladio had shut himself away for the evening without falling down or walking face first into a wall.  They made it safe and sound, though. Ignis nodded his thanks in Prompto’s general direction and then proceeded to knock on the closed door.

He didn’t wait to be permitted entry. He simply opened the door and strode towards his fate with as much dignity as he could muster.  He made it all of two steps before his shoe caught on some obstacle that his cane had missed and he went down on all fours, his knees colliding painfully with hardwood floors while his hands sank into something surprisingly soft and springy.

Shame burned in his cheeks as he struggled and failed to orient himself. His questing fingers kept finding new obstacles in unexpected places, and Ignis had a very strong suspicion that Gladio had torn the room apart, leaving no clear path for a blind man to follow.

Giving up on any pretenses of dignity, Ignis let out an aggravated huff and brought his hands to his lap. He knelt on the floor, not knowing exactly where to look but refusing to look down. He opted to stare blindly at the ceiling as he asked:

“Gladio? May we speak?”

 

 

 


	2. Gladio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really difficult. I re-wrote it so many times. I'm still not satisfied with it, but there comes a point where you just need to bite the bullet and post it. I just hope that it still makes sense.

Gladiolus Amicitia had spent his entire life in preparation for being a Shield. He had grown up with the knowledge that it was his sacred duty to be a flesh and blood barrier between another life and any potential harm. He had grown up with the knowledge that his father shared that same duty. It was nigh on inevitable that both men would suffer for the safety of the line of Lucis. It had always been likely – though not guaranteed – that they would lose their very lives in service to their liege.  Gladio had accepted all of this as readily as any man could be expected to. He had accepted the dehumanization of being reduced to a meat shield, and he bore the scars that came of that service with pride.

It wasn’t uncommon to see another member of the Crownsguard or Kingsglaive injured, or worse. Death and injury were a way of life when one was sworn to the service and protection of another, whether it be a specific person, or merely the populace as a whole.  He could recall the countless occasions in which he had stood in Clarus’s shadow at funerals and memorials for fallen soldiers, or decommissioning ceremonies for those too wounded to continue serving.  He had always known that it could easily be Clarus or himself being hailed a hero as he was withdrawn from service with grievous wounds, or laid to rest in some grandiose state funeral service.  He had been taught from a young age not to mourn for those who fell before him, but to honor their sacrifice and respect their courage.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Ignis Scientia, tawny hair dyed red with his own blood, body limp, battered, and broken.

Ignis was a member of the Crownsguard, certainly, but he was so much _more_ than that. With his brilliant mind and steadfast nature, he was destined to serve as the right hand of the King. Gladio had always imagined that while Noctis was at the heart of his sphere of protection, it extended to Ignis and Prom as well. Noctis needed both of those men, each for their own reasons, to be a well-rounded and just ruler. Sure, it helped that Prompto was a good kid with an infectiously sunny disposition, and the fact that Ignis was the great love of his life didn’t hurt his case any, either.

Gladio had prayed to whatever Gods weren’t fucking with them that day to please, _please_ , let most of that blood not be his Iggy’s. Please let his wounds be superficial. To please tell him that when the medics had unveiled the raw bloody flesh on Ignis’s face that it was just more second-hand gore from the battle, and that the medics would wipe it away to reveal the smooth delicate skin that he had showered so many kisses upon in the past. 

Gladio couldn’t remember much about the day of the Rite. The first half of the day was lost amid a haze of bloodlust and adrenaline. The second half of the day was veiled by the shadows of grief and sorrow.

He didn’t think that he would ever forgive himself for what happened to Ignis and Luna. Even Noct’s physical exhaustion while benign was another weight added to the yoke of guilt that he bore. If he had only been stronger, faster, smarter, he could have saved them all. He could have single-handedly evacuated the city with time to spare to see Ignis to safety, to be there to shield Luna, to lend Noct his strength. If only he had been _better_.

He remembered when Noct and Ignis were brought to the townhouse and how he had dithered like a great lump in the corridor as Noct was carried into the master suite to rest, while Ignis was moved to a guest bedroom at the other end of the hall to be tended to. Watching them taken away each in a different direction; it had been a physical manifestation of the way his heart was being torn asunder, the victim of some twisted version of tug-of-war. Where did he go? Who did he follow? His liege and his duty, or his heart and soul? His duty of course was to Noctis and to the Caelum line, but what existed of his soul that was not sworn over to duty, what small, sacred piece of himself that truly belonged to himself, was held thrall by his love for Ignis.

In the end he had taken up a position in the middle of the hallway, amber eyes darting back and forth from one door to the other, standing vigil over both men. In the back of his mind he knew that truly his rightful place was at Noct’s side, but like the tides drawn in by the moon’s influence, he was drawn to Ignis and hadn’t been able to escape the strategist’s pull on his heart.  As a teenager he had been fascinated by the aloof, serious kid. That fascination had transformed into admiration, and had by now evolved into absolute love and adoration.

Eventually the doctors left. Gladio had barely heard anything that they had said to him over the roar of his own pulse thrumming in his ears.  He’d caught just enough to understand that Noctis was fine and would awake on his own when he was ready. Ignis was stable, most of his injuries save those to his eyes were superficial, and he was sedated until likely the next day. They had probably given them some instructions regarding medication and a timetable of follow-up visits but Gladio didn’t hear any of that. Prompto was there, for once taking on the role of resident responsible adult, carefully noting the doctor’s instructions.

The next thing that Gladio knew, Prompto was patting his arm and heading towards Noct’s room, giving Gladio the time that he needed to see Ignis, alone, without an audience. Gladio would have felt grateful for the other’s consideration and tact, had he the capacity to feel _anything_ but soul-crushing guilt at that moment.

He entered what would be Ignis’s room for the duration of their stay; it was small but well-appointed. He barely noticed the tasteful décor, though, he had eyes only for the man lying silent and still on the bed, a soft beige quilt tucked around his lean frame.

It was incredibly rare for any of them to catch Ignis sleeping. He was always the last one to go to bed, and the first one to rise, tending to their needs around the clock. Back in Insomnia, however, Gladio had been blessed to see Ignis sleeping many times. The Shield had a tendency to wake briefly in the middle of the night; not for any particular reason, it was simply the way he was hardwired. He would sit up in their shared bed and as the moonlight drenched them in ethereal light he would admire the man asleep at his side.  Gladio would drink in the elegant features, so soft and smooth in sleep in a way that the waking Ignis seldom allowed himself to be. He had always loved the way Ignis’s lips parted slightly in his sleep, making his overbite more pronounced and frankly more adorable. He’d also loved the way his long eyelashes would flutter, as if his brilliant, marvelous, sexy brain was still churning away, so that even asleep he was still the smartest person in the room.

The man before him was so different. If it weren’t for the reassuring rise and fall of his chest Gladio might almost think that Ignis had passed on. A large square bandage covered the left side of Ignis’s face, held in place with generous amounts of medical tape. More bandages were wrapped around his head to shield his eyes. He bore several new scars, raw and red, still glistening with freshly-applied ointment.  He couldn’t see those lovely long lashes feathering against Ignis’s cheeks. His features were creased with pain, full lips pursed into a tight, thin line. Gladio felt his heart twist in dismay at the realization that even in sleep his love was in pain, that he knew no comfort, and he could do nothing to ease it, and had done nothing to prevent it. Nothing.

There was an ornate armchair near the bed, but Gladio ignored it. He took a few steps into the room before his trembling legs gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to his knees at Ignis’s bedside. Swallowing back a cry, he pressed his forehead into the edge of Ignis’s mattress and made no move to rise. He was too ashamed: ashamed of his weakness, ashamed of his inability to protect the people who mattered most to him, and ashamed that it was Ignis out of the four of them who’d borne the brunt of the day’s trauma and Gladio’s failure.

In Gladio’s opinion, and he would fight anyone who disagreed with him, there was no finer man than Ignis Scientia. The man was the epitome of what was good about humanity. Sure, he sometimes hid behind a mask of icy decorum, but Gladio had the privilege of being welcomed beyond those defensive walls, to see the true essence of the man. And it was a thing of fucking beauty. Ignis Scientia was kindness and selflessness personified. No one in the history of Eos had ever given so very much and asked so little in return. Ignis, more than anyone that Gladio had ever met, deserved to be loved, cared for, even worshipped. Gladio wanted to erect a temple in honor of Ignis’s goodness, and would gladly prostrate himself before his lover’s altar for the rest of his days. 

Yet here he was, huddled on the floor as Ignis lay injured and suffering, sustaining wounds that Gladio felt it his place as the Shield to bear.

Gladio felt useless. Worthless. Pathetic.

The Shield felt a painful tightening in his chest, as if his own ribs were rebelling against him, constricting him, squeezing the air out of his lungs and the lifeblood from his heart. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it back, burning past his esophagus. Every breath he took was an agony and an effort, and it was never enough. His lungs screamed for more air even as the invisible bands tightened more cruelly around his chest, further choking him. For a few agonizing minutes, he truly thought that this might be it, that he was going to die, gasping for air on Camelia Claustra’s fucking rug.

A fitting end for a failure of a Shield. Useless. Worthless. Pathetic.

The edges of his vision grew dark and blurry. The sounds around him grew faint and distant, he knew that he was gasping out loud to catch an ever-elusive lungful of air, but he couldn’t even hear his own labored breathing properly. Everything about Gladio’s world was suddenly muzzy and somehow seemed so distant and far-removed from him. Everything except for the Gods-be-damned ache in his chest.

The next thing that he knew, skinny arms were wrapped loosely around his hips and a thin chest was pressed to his bowed back. He could dimly feel the exaggerated rise and fall of the other person’s – Prompto’s? – chest behind him, and faintly feel the rush of warm breath against the back of his neck when the other exhaled slowly and deliberately.

“It’s okay big guy. I’ve got you.” _Ahh, it was Prompto_. “Breathe with me, okay, buddy?”

Gladio very badly wanted to point out that he couldn’t match Prompto’s deep, unlaboured breaths, but, well, he didn’t have the breath to actually form words. He shook his head instead.

“You can do this. Come on now. In and out. With me. In- “ Prompto took a deep, slow breath that swelled his chest against Gladio’s back. “-and out.” The gunner exhaled, chest slowly deflating, a slow stream of breath against the side of his neck.

They stayed like this for some time, with Prompto draped against Gladio’s back, trying to both tell and show him how to breathe deeply. Gladio was too stubborn to intentionally try to match the blonde, but there was just something about the way Prompto felt against him, something in his own body that yearned to take in those same life-giving breaths, that caused Gladio to begin unconsciously trying to match him. He did a terrible job, his breaths were still too shallow, but they were better, and his body eventually began to relax, the invisible bands of torture loosening from around his chest so that he could begin to breathe normally again. Once Gladio was successfully matching Prompto’s exaggerated breaths, the gunner loosened his hold on the Shield.

“You okay there?” he asked, voice small and frail with the last vestiges of his worry.  

Gladio scrubbed a hand over his face. His cheeks were damp with sweat or tears or some combination of both. He didn’t want Prompto to see him like that, so he simply nodded, his back still to the blonde. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Yeah. Thanks, kid.” He meant it, too. His chest still felt too tight, he still felt somehow as if he didn’t fit properly into his own skin, but he was better. He could function, and wasn’t that all that mattered?

“Need anything?”

Gladio chuckled darkly. Other than a time machine so that he could undo the past month or so, warn his former self, sneak into Niflheim and personally assassinate each and every one of their leaders? “I think I need some air.”

Prompto hummed agreeably. “Probably a good idea. Look, Ignis isn’t expected to be awake again until tomorrow, and the doc says Noct is out for a few days, but they don’t know Noct.” There was a smile in his tone. Prompto couldn’t help dripping sunshine. “A few days of sleep for a normal person means at least a week for him. So you have some time, y’know?”

Gladio chuckled and shifted to face the gunner at last. “Yeah, though not too much. If they think Ignis is going to sleep until tomorrow, he’ll be awake tonight.”

Prompto smiled fondly. “Yeah. Man for two guys who are such opposites, they sure do get along. Like peanut butter and jelly.”

Gladio lifted a shoulder in a weak shrug. “You can thank the Crown for that.” He cast his gaze upwards to where Ignis still rested, oblivious to what had been going on a mere foot away. “They found a malleable and precocious little boy and molded him to suit Noct’s needs.” Gladio sighed and tore his gaze from his love, looking at Prompto again. “Who knows, had we been born to different families, we could have grown up to be anything. I could’ve been a fashion designer. Iggy could have been a garbage collector.”

The mental imagery made Prompto laugh. It felt good, hearing the Chocobo-butt laugh like that. Felt like he was doing something right again. He could perhaps still shield Prompto from sadness and worry. It wouldn’t negate his other failings, but it was a start. Then when they awoke he could work on making amends with Noctis and Ignis.

“Thanks, I needed that.” Prompto flashed a crooked smile. “Now go on,” he patted Gladio’s muscular arm. “Get some air. You still have loads of time, even if Iggy is typically punctual about waking up.”

Gladio nodded. “Yeah. I’m gonna go see what I can maybe do to help out. There’s gotta be sandbags I can haul or something. I won’t be long, though, you’ll need a break too.”

True to his word Gladio did go out. He stopped outside of Claustra’s townhouse, looking this way and that way along the street, trying to gauge where he could find the most action. He caught a flurry of activity a few blocks to the south and without thinking he set at a jog to join the chaos.

He'd only run a few blocks before he found himself in the thick of things. Work crews were everywhere, hauling sandbags off of trucks, or manually carrying them down the side streets that were either too narrow or too congested with rubble. Before Gladio had a chance to fully assess the organized chaos of the cleanup effort and find his place in it, an older man with the thickest beard Gladio’d ever seen flagged him down. “You looking to help out, son?”

“Yeah. Whatcha need?” The Shield rumbled.

“Ha! I’m calling dibs on you and those muscles of yours, boy! Come on over this way, help my guys clear this street so we can get more equipment moving down south.”

With that, Gladio soon lost himself in the soothing mindlessness of physical labour. His arms and legs began to burn from the effort of carrying chunks of brick and stone to the temporary dumpsters the crew had set up. His back ached from the constant stooping and bending. His hands were quickly turned into a patchwork of cuts and scrapes as he dug his hands heedlessly into piles of rubble. Everything began to hurt, and it was exactly what Gladio needed. The pain reminded him that he was alive, and that he was useful, even if it was only as a manual labourer. He could still make amends, he could still atone. Even if it meant physically carrying Noct and Ignis to the finish line. He’d gladly break his back for either of them.

As much as Gladio was feeling invigorated by the work, he was ever mindful that his true duty remained in the townhouse, and that he didn’t dare leave it all to Prompto for long. Daylight was still cresting over the horizon when he returned, confident that there was no chance that Ignis could have awoken in such a short period of time.

He took a brief detour to the downstairs guest washroom to scrub at the dust and dirt covering his hands and arms. He didn’t dare take time for a proper shower just yet. He splashed some water on his face to erase most of the sweat and streaks of dirt before towelling off and heading deeper into the house in search of Prompto.

He found the blonde sitting in the upstairs hall. He’d followed Gladio’s earlier example, taking up a position from which he could keep an eye or an ear on both of his charges.  His sapphire eyes were dull and his bottom lip had a distinctly chewed upon quality to it. Gladio cocked an eyebrow at him and immediately demanded, “What’s wrong?”

Prompto scuffed a toe into the ornate blue and green rug that covered most of the hallway’s floorboards. “Nothing’s wrong. Noct is still asleep, no change there, and Ignis is knocked out.”

Gladio narrowed his eyes to glowing amber slits. “No change there either?”

“Well no. I mean there was, but not now.”

Gladio could feel those horrible, constricting bands encircling his chest again and he struggled to keep them at bay long enough to spit out his demands. “Talk. And make fucking sense, please.”

And so Prompto had explained how Ignis had miraculously awoken a mere hour after Gladio had left, forced awake by the sheer force of his will. Gladio could have laughed when Prompto explained that Ignis had immediately asked about their welfare. Typical Ignis. Too busy playing mother hen to stay in a medically-induced sleep. Fucking typical.  He could have laughed, if not for the painful stab of guilt in his gut as realization dawned on him.

Ignis had woken up, wounded, blind, possibly afraid and confused. And Gladio, the eternal failure that he was, hadn’t fucking been there.  It didn’t matter that he’d had no reason in the world to expect that even Ignis Scientia would have awoken so soon. It didn’t matter that he had been as good as useless in his previous state, until he’d gotten some fresh air and exercise. It didn’t matter that he had done what he had needed to do for his own mental well-being. All that mattered was the horror that was now eating away at his brain, realizing what he had done, what he had put Ignis and even Prompto through.

Prompto in his usual sweet way filled the oppressively heavy air with chatter, recounting every detail of his time with Ignis before Gladio could ask. He tried to find comfort in the fact that Ignis had seemed to take everything in his usual way. He’d not been awake long enough to do much more than fuss over the rest of them before succumbing to his own pain and weariness again.

It didn’t work. The ache in his soul became a physical pain, constricting his chest again, throbbing behind his eyes. Furiously he turned around and aimed a savage kick at the wall. The paintings hung in the hall rattled as the force of the blow reverberated through the walls. Looking down he saw a small chip in the paint where the toe of his boot had connected. He kicked the wall again, scraping off more paint, and earning himself a sore foot for his trouble.

It felt surprisingly good. This was a pain that he could control, that he could master. It was different from the burning of unshed tears, the painful constriction of his throat, the dull ache radiating in his gut.  He wanted to kick the wall again and again, until the fucking thing collapsed, or until his foot was in bloody tatters, whichever came first. But the shell-shocked look on Prompto’s face that he caught out of the corner of his eye stilled him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and rubbed his hands along his face. “Sorry, Prom. I just, fuck. I’m sorry. I can’t do any of this. Can you…?” he cocked his head in the direction of Noct’s room and then Ignis’s.

“Yeah,” came Prompto’s whispered reply. “I got this. You take care of you.” The gunslinger licked his chapped lips. “I get it. Probably more than you know.”

* * *

 

The next few days were a blur of pain, physical and emotional.

It began with an assault on Claustra’s townhouse. He’d kicked, punched and stomped on anything and everything that he could get away with. There were a few dents in the walls that matched the tread of his boots or the lines of his knuckles. He’d strategically moved some paintings and wall mirrors around to hide them. He’d torn the cushions off the sofas in the parlor and kicked them around the room whenever Claustra’s people were there, so they wouldn’t hear him beating up the architecture.

His hands were turning interesting shades of purple, knuckles split and swollen. His feet probably looked about the same inside of his boots. He didn’t care. It was no less than he felt that he deserved, after both failing to protect what mattered to him, and then fucking failing to be there for Ignis the first time he awoke.

In those following days he did his best to work through whatever was wrong with him, and he knew damn well that something was wrong with him. The physical assault on the house helped. It allowed him to express his absolute hatred for that hag Claustra who’d had the audacity to demand that Noctis assign three men to the evacuation effort – three fucking men, when she probably knew damn well that was Noct’s entire retinue, it was such a fucking _specific_ number. As if she didn’t have dozens or hundreds of law enforcement personnel at her disposal, she’d really needed those three extra fucking people, and by default that had fucking included Ignis …

It also helped him punish himself, the pain he inflicted upon himself was like a small measure of atonement for his failures. He felt unworthy of his title, of his rank, of his friendships and of Ignis’s love. Pain was all that he deserved, and until he’d felt enough pain he just couldn’t face Ignis. With each passing hour – no, minute – it only became harder to face him. He knew that the longer he stayed away the worse it would be, the harder it would be to eventually face him. He knew that the pain that he was inflicting upon his pet by his absence only grew worse over time, the debt mounting ever higher until it seemed impossible for Gladio to ever repay it.

 It was a truly vicious cycle. Stay away, because you are unworthy. You are more unworthy the longer you stay away.

There would come a point where Gladio had enough adrenaline coursing through his system to dull the pain and to make his brain muzzy enough that he stopped thinking about what a miserable failure he was. During those hours he would slip upstairs to stand vigil over Noctis or sometimes outside Ignis’s door, relieving Prompto so the gunner could get some food and rest. It was the only time when Gladio honestly felt stable enough to be trusted with Noct’s care. The Shield in him recognized himself as a danger to his charge and he forced himself to stay away, except for those moments of clarity and sanity that he found here and there.

He would also prowl the hallway, wearing a path through the carpet. From a safe distance he would watch Ignis, who spent the majority of his time in fits of restless slumber, interspersed with only brief periods of wakefulness, in which Prompto would try to coax him to eat, or help him to the bathroom.

Prompto had tried to coax Gladio into Ignis’s room, but Gladio had always answered with a bitter “not yet, I can’t.” Prompto hadn’t argued. Gladio suspected that Prompto had dealt with whatever this was before, that he’d been the one who had forgotten how to breathe, that he’d drowned in self-doubt before, too. Maybe someday when there was time they could talk about it.

By the third day Gladio really thought that he was going to be okay. He hadn’t kicked or punched anything for several hours, and he was beginning to regain that sense of purpose that he’d felt when clearing rubble, that sense that as long as he still breathed, he could be useful, he could make this all up to Noctis and Ignis and even Prompto.  He hadn’t had that awful strangling sensation for over a day.

Then it happened.

He had been on his way to Ignis’s room after finishing his first shower in probably four days now. He’d been pretty gross, but he’d somehow felt like he hadn’t deserved the comfort of a shower. He finally felt ready to face Ignis. He’d spent the entire morning talking himself into it, reminding himself that he needed to get it over with, that it would only be worse the longer he put it off. When he reminded himself that Ignis was probably feeling vulnerable and afraid, he was finally able to force his feet to climb the stairs and head towards Ignis’s room. The doctor would be coming over that afternoon to remove his bandages and assess, well, assess the final damage to Ignis. Gladio was determined to be there for him through that, if Ignis wanted him. He’d planned to go to him early, to get their long-delayed reunion out of the way first.

The sound of unfamiliar voices stopped Gladio dead in his tracks. Horrified amber eyes darted to the antique clock hanging from the wall. It wasn’t even fucking lunchtime yet. The doctor was at least three hours early.

Bitterly Gladio realized that he should have known better. This was just like that first day, when Ignis had awoken horribly prematurely, propelling Gladio on this downward spiral he’d been on.

Taking a deep breath, he crept down the length of the hallway until he could see Ignis’s door, and was able to see and hear what was going on.  He was just in time to hear the doctors apologizing, to see the defeated slump to Ignis’s shoulders, and he knew that the tiny glimmer of hope that they’d held onto that his right eye might have been spared had been dashed.

Gladio found himself dithering in the hallway. His heart screamed at him to go to him, to wrap his arms around Ignis, smother him in the safety and security of his undying love. His traitorous brain whispered jeeringly at him that Ignis wouldn’t want him now, that he’d fucked up too badly, that he’d missed his chance to make up for his previous failure to be with him. After that first incident where Iggy had awoken so soon he should have known better, should have planted himself at Ignis’s side the moment he'd felt like he was mentally stable enough. He never should have risked missing this moment by having the audacity to sleep for the first time in two days and shower for the first time in four.

He’d never trust another timetable from a doctor again, that was for fucking sure.

Gladio was still between his heart and his mind when the most soul-crushing sound on Eos came to him. Ignis was crying. And not just crying, he was wailing and sobbing as if his guts were being slowly excised inch by inch.  With that sound something fundamental in Gladio’s spirit shattered.  All of his mental healing, all of his efforts to push back his own emotional anguish and illness were undone by that sound, and suddenly Gladio was far more broken than he had ever been, ever thought that he could be.

As Ignis’s anguished sobs echoed through the house, the King’s Shield was well and truly broken.

Gladio let out an anguished roar that rivalled the noises coming out of Ignis in terms of pain. He turned on his heel and fled for the safety of the downstairs parlor, where his fist barreled clear through the drywall. Fuck, he’d need to move the furniture around again to hide that.

* * *

 

If Gladio had thought those first few days were bleak, they were nothing compared to his world now. His every waking moment was agony. He couldn’t breathe properly, his chest felt too tight again, he didn’t feel like he belonged in his own skin. He had given up on trying to redirect the pain into his fists, it just didn’t work anymore. He still kicked the wall now and then just to make sure, but otherwise he just sat. He sat on the remains of a couch that he’d torn apart. He sat on the floor surrounded by cushions and overturned tables. He sat for hour upon hour, barely aware of the world around him, blind and deaf to its comforts. He was a prisoner of his own mind, listening to the cruel, twisted thoughts that swirled in him like a poison. He heard his father, telling him that he was a broken Shield. He heard Iris, tsking in disappointment. He heard Noctis, pointing out that he’d never deserved someone like Ignis. He heard Regis, bemoaning the fact that his son had such a weakling for a Shield. All words that none of them had ever uttered in reality, but somehow the thoughts felt right at home in his mind.

Above all, he heard Ignis's anguished sobs echoing in his mind. That sound was truly nightmare fuel for Gladio. Other than that one time several days ago now, he hadn't heard Ignis crying, other than in his own painful recollection, but that one time had been more than enough. That one time had fractured something nameless and precious in his soul and he didn't know how to fix it. The selfish part of him thought Ignis would know, but he could never let himself yearn for the other man's comfort. Not when Ignis was in most need of care.

Prompto had tried to help him, but Gladio had been savage in his insistence that Prompto take care of Ignis and Noctis. Prompto had been too afraid to argue the point, or maybe he had recognized that the physical ailments of their companions trumped whatever was wrong with Gladio. (He would, of course, eventually learn that Prompto had been afraid, and that he was uniquely sympathetic to Gladio’s plight)

One day blurred into the next for Gladio. He didn’t even know what day it was when he’d heard the knock on the door. He always ignored the knock, Prompto always came in anyway to drop off a tray of food and water, and take back the last tray he’d brought which Gladio would have barely touched. Gladio didn’t even bother looking up. It was too hard, seeing Prompto, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, blue eyes always so sad and so knowing, like he knew exactly what Gladio was going through.

Gladio hadn’t expected the hauntingly familiar, beautifully accented tone that asked _: “Gladio? May we speak?”_

A week’s worth of unshed tears suddenly welled in his tired eyes.

“My love…I’m so, so sorry.” was all that he managed to choke out before he surrendered to his tears, salty tracks running down his cheeks and disappearing into the scruff of his beard.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three will be so much less painful. I promise. I promiiiiise. Thank you so much for bearing with me. I'm sure these first two chapters were not what most people expected from this series. What can I say? I'm a very contrary person. You expect Gladio to hold Iggy's hand through his recovery? I inflict Gladio with some form of anxiety/PTSD and separate them. You expect Prompto to be the one with mental health issues? I say Gladio gets a turn to be vulnerable and mentally fragile.


	3. Chapter 3

Gladio dragged his knuckles across his eyes, smearing more tears across his cheeks, but freeing up his vision so that he might look at the man who was knelt before him. Not knelt as he was accustomed to; elegant and proud in his submission to Gladio. Instead Ignis was knelt in uncertainty, having tripped and not knowing how to navigate through the labyrinth of scattered furniture and cushions that Gladio had created in the parlor.

Even in this state: clumsy, unsure, and maimed, Ignis was still the most gorgeous thing that Gladio had ever seen. Even the massive scar surrounding the ruin of Ignis’s left eye was beautiful, in a sick, perverse way. With its sunburst pattern and the way it sharply contrasted with Ignis’s fair skin, it almost looked like something that warriors in some ancient tribe might affix to themselves with war paint. Leave it to Ignis fucking Scientia to make such a terrible injury look beautiful.

Still, though, Gladio would give anything, _anything_ , to undo the harm to his love.  If someone told Gladio that his own eyes could be used to heal Ignis, he wouldn’t even waste time summoning a blade, he’d claw his eyes out with his own fingers and gleefully present them for Ignis’s approval.

“Gladio? It’s alright. Come now, no need for all that.” Ignis turned his head slightly, not quite looking at Gladio, but doing a remarkably good job at giving the impression that he was trying to make eye contact.

Gladio only sniffled in response. He didn’t know what else to say to Ignis, other than a never-ending stream of apologies. He certainly didn’t know how to respond to the man’s gentle tone, to the obvious care and compassion wrought into his words, care and compassion that Gladio hardly thought should be directed at himself just then.

Seemingly guided by nothing more than the sound of Gladio’s ragged breaths and occasional sniffs – which he tried in vain to suppress – Ignis began to move towards him. Ignis’s dignity took a backseat to his concern for Gladio. He was slow, and his movements lacked his usual fluid grace. He crawled over couch cushions and open books, and when he came to an upended side table he plowed stubbornly over it. Gladio watched, stunned into immobilization by the other man’s tenacity, his refusal to let some trifle like being fucking _blind_ get in his way.

If it hadn’t been for the goddamn picture frame, Gladio may have been stunned into paralysis forever.

There was such an unholy mess on the floor, the product of several days of Gladio sequestering himself in one room with a soul full of rage. Anything that wasn’t nailed down had been flung about. He had completely forgotten about the little framed photos that had been on the tables that he had flipped, and Astrals knew Ignis couldn’t see them, the man had no idea what he was crawling over and through in order to get to Gladio.

Terror flared in Gladio’s heart as he finally saw them, the collection of viciously jagged glass shards just a few inches in front of Ignis, immediately in the path of his ungloved hands.

“Stop!” he cried out, louder than he’d intended, louder than he’d been for a week. He had forgotten how to modulate his volume.

Immediately Ignis froze and drew himself to kneel precisely where he was, which happened to be with one knee on the underside of a flipped table, the other on a small collection of battered books. His hands, thankfully, fell safely into his own lap.

“I’m sorry,” the Advisor whispered, head angling down, not in submission, but in something that reeked to Gladio of shame or perhaps embarrassment. Ignis’s shoulders hunched forward and Gladio caught the way the man angled his head as if trying to hide his scarred features.

“No. No, fuck, Specky.” Gladio grimaced. He didn’t know exactly what was going through Ignis’s mind, or how he had interpreted Gladio’s demand that he stop moving towards him. Gladio belatedly realized that Ignis was still unaware of the broken glass and other perils likely strewn before him. He struggled to shove aside his own pain. It was surprisingly easy to do, when the alternative was to let Ignis wallow in his own self-recrimination. Gladio dragged himself off of the couch, joints cracking in protest. He had been sitting there for the better part of a day. “Just give me a sec, okay? I need to um, fix the room a bit.”

Ignis’s lips drew into a thin line. “Shame on Prompto. He told me you hadn’t damaged any of the First Secretary’s property.”

“Kid’s a good liar when he needs to be,” Gladio sighed. Feeling stiff and robotic, he moved about the room, snatching up couch cushions and shoving them back into place. He used his feet to shove and kick the debris out of Ignis’s way, feeling a twinge of regret when he saw the bent and mangled books. Ignis was going to murder him good for that. All the while Ignis knelt patiently atop his throne of destruction.

Once there was at least a bit of safe space, Gladio cleared his throat. “There, I uh, got some stuff out of the way. Is it okay if I help you?” He’d half expected Ignis to say no, to rebuke him for having a week-long hissy fit instead of being at his sickbed where he belonged. Gladio flinched and immediately felt guilty when he realized that had Ignis his sight, he might have made more of an effort to school his features, but knowing that Ignis couldn’t see him, he’d let himself flinch, let himself show the fear and uncertainty that he would have ordinarily buried somewhere deep.

Ignis nodded. “Yes, Sir. Thanks. I’m sorry to be such trouble.”

Ignis’s calm demeanor and way that he seemed to be bordering on apologetic for his very fucking existence was killing Gladio, dissolving his heart cell by cell.

“You’re not, Ignis. You’re not.” Gladio wanted to say more, wanted to explain to Ignis that Gladio could hardly see him up there on his lofty pedestal, wanted to explain that Ignis was well beyond his judgement and well beyond being any source of trouble. His throat was becoming painfully tight, though, and he just couldn’t force out any more words. Taking shallow, ragged breaths was still proving to be a challenge for him.

Ignis’s head canted from side to side as he listened to Gladio speak, and listened to his irregular breathing. Worry lines creased his brow, mingling with the handful of new scars – some temporary, some likely permanent. He allowed himself to be lead by the Shield up onto the couch.

Gladio fought the urge to kneel at Ignis’s feet and instead he curled into a cross-legged pose at the other end of the couch. There would be time to grovel and beg for forgiveness later, if Ignis would permit it. In the meantime, Gladio was still cognizant of the fact that Ignis had wanted to speak with him and by the Six, he wasn’t going to deny him.

“You wanted to talk to me, yeah?” Gladio cringed at how forced and trite his words were, and how weak and watery his voice sounded in his own ears. He sounded like a shell of his former self. He _was_ a shell of his former self, he reminded himself bitterly.

Ignis licked his lips, pausing to prod the tip of his tongue into a particularly deep cut. “Yes, if you don’t mind. I realize that I ought to have waited for you to seek me out yourself in your own time, but I seem to have been overcome by a rather nasty bout of selfishness.”

Gladio snorted. Selfish people and people named Ignis Scientia were two circles on a Venn diagram that did not intersect.  He wanted to sit this sweet, kind man down and explain that to him, wanted to bring in a parade of character witnesses who could testify to Ignis’s selflessness and goodness, but all he could manage was a quiet “Yeah, we can, ‘course.”

“Thank you,” came Ignis’s typically mild response. The strategist bowed his head in quiet thought for a moment. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t exactly rehearsed what I wanted to say.” Ignis sighed and shrugged before squaring his shoulders resolutely. “I’d been wondering why we hadn’t spoken, since the Rite.  I can think of any number of reasons why, and frankly I’ve come to the point where the endless speculating was driving me mad and I just need to know, Gladiolus.”

Gladio bowed his head as well. He’d thought this was what Ignis had wanted, of course, but that didn’t make the prospect of admitting to how weak and pathetic he’d been any easier.

“You needn’t concern yourself with sparing my feelings,” Ignis added helpfully.

“It’s not that,” Gladio croaked out through a throat that felt achingly tight. Already he could feel the tension squeezing his chest like a vice. He didn’t know what was worse, this feeling or the cold numbness of the past few days. “It’s hard to talk at all.”

A sudden shift of movement caught Gladio’s eye and he looked down to see one of Ignis’s hands stretched out to him, resting palm up in an open invitation atop the couch cushions. Gladio stared at it for a moment, an ivory beacon stretched into the no man’s land between them. Hesitantly he took Ignis’s hand, their fingers lacing together as naturally and as easily as ever.

“Thank you, pet.” Gladio murmured, squeezing the other’s hand gently.

“Always,” Ignis kept his head bowed, but his tone was gentled by fondness.

Ignis’s hand was warm in his, and he could feel the light thrumming of the other man’s pulse through his palm. It heartened him enough that he could get the words out, though he was clumsy and stilted with his speech. He explained to Ignis about how guilty he’d felt when he saw Ignis’s injuries, and heard about Luna. He explained his unforgivably poor timing in missing Ignis waking up, and missing him having his bandages removed. He explained how he’d wanted to talk to him this entire time, but with each minute that ticked by it had only gotten harder to do, until it seemed impossible. He tried to explain that he hadn’t felt fit for company most of the time.  He did his very best to explain everything without sounding as if he was making excuses for himself.

“So just to clarify,” Ignis squeezed their linked fingers gently. “It’s not that I repulse you, or that you don’t want to be burdened by my presence?”

“What? Ramuh’s glowing balls, no! No, no, no! Fuck, Ignis, don’t you ever let me catch you thinking shit like that.“ Ignis hissed softly and Gladio belatedly realized that he was squeezing their joined hands much too tight. He slackened his grip immediately. “Sorry. I know it’s stupid. I know I’m being a big dumb idiot. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can tell something is. I’ve felt like someone’s been squeezing me to death from the inside all week. I can’t breathe half the time, let alone do basic shit like eat and sleep.”

Ignis lifted his head, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. “Would a hug help?”

Gladio gave a watery chuckle. “Dunno. I’m willing to try if you are.”

Clumsily the two closed the distance separating them. Gladio wrapped strong arms around Ignis’s lithe body, seeking to surround the Advisor in as much love and reassurance as he could pour into the gesture. For his part Ignis wrapped one arm around Gladio’s waist, the other around his broad back, clinging to him, radiating the warmth that was uniquely his, wanting to infuse Gladio with all of the comfort that the Shield hadn’t been receiving.

One hug wouldn’t be sufficient to erase their hurts, physical and emotional, but it was a start. It was the first of many hugs that the two would share.

“I can’t believe that you’re the one comforting me right now,” Gladio mumbled into the top of Ignis’s head as he cuddled the smaller man closer. “Seems wrong.”

Ignis hummed gently. “I don’t mind.” He patted Gladio’s shoulder. “It’s good for me, makes me feel like I’m still good for something around here.”

“Yeah?” There was a cheeky note to Gladio’s tone, a welcome change from the dreary monotone he’d adopted the past week. “Well if it’s for your own good, think I could get a kiss or two, or twelve?”

Ignis clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “My heart, you desperately need a shower and I suspect a good tooth brushing first.”

“Aww c’mon. Just one kiss? As a show of good faith!”

“I could never refuse you.” Ignis smiled and allowed Gladio to gently guide his chin up and into a tender kiss. Knowing that he was only getting the one, Gladio held Ignis firmly in place, taking his time to drink the other man’s affection down, lingering in the kiss far longer than he should. He felt the tickle of air as Ignis sighed through his nose, seemingly equally unwilling to break their one kiss.

Neither man was foolish enough to think that they would have an easy road from this point onwards. Ignis was still blind, Gladio still had a tangled mess of emotions to sort through, and there would be much to discuss when Noctis woke up. But they knew that they would face those trials together, and emerge better, stronger men for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! It's out of my system. Now I can get back to my regular life of happy smooshy squishy Gladnis trash.


End file.
